21 - Ariadne
S he finds Iona hunched over a grimoire, sitting cross-legged on the bed in the spare room upstairs. The window is left partially ajar, letting in golden afternoon light and fresh air that smells faintly of ripened apples.
Iona smiles at her when she enters, but her hazel eyes behold the sort of exhaustion that cannot be quelled by sleep alone.
Ariadne approaches her, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then her cheek. “You’ve been confined to this room long enough.”
Iona frowns slightly, her eyes returning to her grimoire in earnest. “I’ve more studying to do.”
“You are allowed respites,” Ariadne says.
“There isn’t time,” she mumbles.
Sighing, Ariadne studies her a moment, then looks to her staff and wonders if perhaps she could make the time.
She centers herself, a thrill going through her at the sight of the labradorite stone glowing. Steadily the sounds of birds grow silent, the breeze in Iona’s hair goes still, and all of time stops.
She takes a moment to admire the feat and wonders about the scope of the magic. Is time frozen everywhere? Or does it only reach a certain area? For the sake of experimentation, she releases the staff and to her disappointment, the spell dwindles as time starts again.
“Your sulking shan’t change my mind,” Iona murmurs.
“Is that so?” Ariadne asks, and the mischievous tone of her voice must have given her away, because Iona tenses and peers up at her.
“What are you up to?” Iona asks, glancing at the staff where it stands on its own without toppling.
“Nothing.” Ariadne reaches for it and with effort she concentrates again, making time stop at her will. The weight of time is a constant pressure against her mind , most uncomfortable but not unendurable.
Then she frowns, tapping a finger against her chin as she considers her next move.
After a moment’s deliberation, she takes the grimoire in Iona’s lap and sets it aside on the comforter.
Then, one handed, she puts her shoulder against Iona’s middle, wraps an arm around her waist, and with a bit of shuffling and finagling, she manages to lift Iona up and onto her shoulder, with her legs dangling in front and her arms hanging at Ariadne’s back.
“Oh, she will be furious.” Ariadne grins and carefully steps out of the room, goes down the stairs one careful step at a time, and slips out the front door.
But on her way down the path towards the garden, the weight of time becomes a crushing albatross revolting against her spell.
The weight of it is too much to withstand, though she tries anyway, until she trips on a loose stone and her concentration breaks.
The spell ceases at once and Iona gasps at her sudden shift in gravity.
“Ariadne Zerynthos, what have you done?” Iona kicks and squirms, trying to break free.
“We’re almost there.” She groans and giggles when Iona tries to wrestle for her freedom.
“Release me at once!” Iona protests and turns the ground beneath them into a deep pit of mud.
Ariadne yelps and nearly falls as she sinks down to her knees in the muck and Iona manages to wriggle out of her hold. Wisp comes bounding out of the house in search of Iona and runs over to them with a toothy grin, Aster at her heels.
“How on earth did you manage that?” Iona asks.
“I’m only practicing my spell work, same as you,” Ariadne says.
“You are a constant nuisance,” Iona huffs, her pendant glowing as the mud turns back into solid soil, leaving their hems stained brown.
“Since you are already outside, you may as well-“
“I must continue my studies,” Iona insists even as Ariadne takes her hand to coax her farther down the path.
“The grimoires will still be there when you return,” Ariadne says.
“But there is so much I have yet to master.” Iona succeeds in pulling her arm away. “I’ll study for one more hour, then I’ll return.”
Ariadne scowls when Iona walks away, then clicks her tongue at Aster. The wolf gallops over to Iona and tackles her to the ground, subduing her with a barrage of slobbering licks and kisses.
“Aster!” Iona sputters, but the wolf won’t let her rise. “Make him stop!”
“You need rest.”
“No, I must study!”
“I shan’t let you waste away in that room.”
“I’m not-” Iona lets out a giggle when Aster tickles her neck with his sniffing nose. “For goodness sake! Aster, get off!”
“He won’t listen,” Ariadne smirks. “Aster, lie down.”
The wolf slumps his full weight on top of Iona, making her grunt.
“I’ll tell your grandmother of this,” Iona threatens, trying to wriggle herself free, but Aster won’t budge and continues sniffing and licking at her face.
“This was Nonna’s idea, actually,” Ariadne grins.
“Surely not-“ Iona squeals when Aster nuzzles his wet nose against her ear. “Ari!”
“Aster, come.” Ariadne pats her leg, and he immediately jumps up and runs to her side. She scratches behind his ears, then conjures a bloody steak and tosses it into his mouth.
Iona wipes slobber from her face and gives Wisp a reproachful look. “A lot of help you were…”
Wisp tilts her head to the side, her tongue hanging out as she pants from the heat.
“Lay here with me,” Ariadne implores. “Please?”
Iona sighs dramatically, then glares up at her from beneath her lashes. “I propose a compromise.”
Iona lies with her grimoire propped against her bent legs and her mane of red hair spread out across Ariadne’s lap, who gently strokes the lustrous strands, then sets to work making thin, delicate braids.
Chicory flowers grow wild around them, and Ariadne weaves in the stems until Iona’s hair is filled with tiny blue blossoms.
“May I practice a spell on you?” Iona asks.
“You may do whatever you wish to me,” Ariadne says.
Iona rolls her eyes, but her blush is immediate. Ariadne bites back her grin.
“Nun-eul humchida,” Iona incants.
In a fading gradient of color and light, Ariadne’s vision slowly goes black.
“Can you see?” Iona asks.
“No,” Ariadne says, swallowing down her discomfort.
But Iona senses her unease and quickly reverses the spell, then says, “That could be useful.”
“Indeed,” Ariadne says.
When Wisp tries to dig a hole in Nonna’s vegetable garden, Iona reprimands her, so the fox goes to play with Aster in the orchard instead.
Ariadne reaches out a hand and a ripened apple flies through the air and into her palm.
Iona barely notices her conjuring a paring knife and cutting off a piece, until Ariadne presents the slice of fruit to her, pressing it against her mouth until Iona parts her lips and takes a bite. Ariadne eats the other half.
“Have you ever tried this spell?” Iona asks around her mouthful and lifts her grimoire up so Ariadne can see.
“Armatura,” Ariadne reads. “Yes, on occasion. Though I am not partial to armor. It can be exceedingly heavy and restricts movement too much for my liking.”
“But it can shield from attacks,” Iona says.
“Only physical ones,” Ariadne says.
“I would not be opposed to wearing it, if I could bear the weight. I wouldn’t wish to be encumbered either,” Iona says. “But here it says you can enchant the armor with protection spells. That is of great interest to me.”
“You can make another ring to accomplish the very same.” But when Iona gives her an annoyed look, Ariadne acquiesces. “It is a fine enough option. If it will provide you a greater sense of security than by all means, cover yourself in metal.”
Iona’s frown deepens and she turns to the next page. In truth, Ariadne resents the idea that she should feel the need to craft armor at all, but after Ariadne’s failure to protect her in their last encounter with the Crone, she can hardly blame Iona for want of fortified defenses.
“How many enchantments could I cast upon the armor?” she asks.
“It depends,” Ariadne says. “Objects can only house so much magic, or otherwise the power will destroy it to break free. Only those with a mastery of enchantment, like Morgan and Merlin, can house a great deal of magic without suffering those repercussions, thus making their artifacts so valuable. I would wager two, perhaps three spells would not cause you trouble.”
“Even with the pendant?” Iona asks.
Ariadne considers it. “Perhaps four or five with the use of the pendant. You would need to test it and see.”
“Hmmm…” Iona’s brow furrows in concentration.
Ariadne offers her another piece of apple, but Iona shakes her head. She shuts the grimoire and tosses it aside, opting instead for a tome bound in black leather with no title embossed on the cover or spine. She hesitates before opening it and Ariadne leans in closer to read with her.
The book had been a gift from Aunt Xiomara upon their departure. She’d explained that it is a secret index of the family’s many brushes with maleficians over the decades.
Katrin’s own scrawl litters the first page and recounts an encounter with a malefician who had a particular obsession with corrupted necromancy.
The witch poisoned the water supply of an entire city so that she could revive the townsfolk as wraiths to do her bidding and protect her from opposing forces.
Iona leafs through the many pages filled with handwritten scribbles.
“Phobokenesis,” Iona murmurs, running her finger lightly over the page as she reads aloud. “She exploited my fear, mining my worst terrors from my deepest memories. A moment longer and she would have defeated me, but I severed her head from her body while she thought me incapacitated.”
Ariadne recalls running through the snow, Iona’s screams echoing through the barren trees, the freezing water that had nearly drowned her, just like in her countless nightmares of Vivien. Elise had evidently attempted this sort of magic on her, though she hadn’t known there was a name for it.